


I got goosebumps all over me when you're around

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autumn, Banter, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Developing Relationship, Emotional Constipation, Flirting, Food, Friendship/Love, Guns, Hanging Out, Hugs, Idiots in Love, Insecure Wade Wilson, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Peter Parker, Poor Peter Parker, Some Humor, Stimming, all characters are adult, gratuitous media references, healing factor, heat wave, like literally him and aunt may don't really have a lot of money, peter lives with aunt may
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 14:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16703980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: Wade started up his humming again while they ate, the same bar repeated over and over as he moved his head and shoulders imperceptibly. A tiny motion back and forth, hypnotically rhythmic. Peter turned his attention to the clock, and his food, and the occasional pop as the frying pan cooled on the burner.





	1. Heat Wave

**Author's Note:**

> Setting is a kind of... canon-adjacent alternate reality... Just so I don't have to deal with the twelve million things that have happened in both Spider-Man's and Deadpool's respective stories (and crossovers)... They ARE Spider-Man and Deadpool, though, and it comes up a couple times but mostly I'm focusing on the down-time they spend together.
> 
> It's probably the early twenty-tens, like 2012 or something. Peter's about 25-going-on-26, going back to school for a MA in whatever science bullshit he does (irrelevant to the story) and Wade's like, 38. Still a pretty hefty age gap but they are both (extremely immature) adults.
> 
> Here's the playlist I made/listened to while writing: [link](https://open.spotify.com/user/1276132741/playlist/5B7kFcHvUUz1KvWf8qmi3R?si=KR9XtWZ-TxqovoYwAwEPSA)

Seven precisely timed raps at the door—now, who could that be?

"Oh, Wade! I wasn't expecting you tonight! Are you planning to stay for dinner?"

"Dinner—well, I wouldn't want to intrude, ma'am, and I was just gonna, well, I mean, if it's okay with you, that is—"

"Nonsense, of course it is! And don't call me ma'am."

"Of course, Ms. Parker."

"Wade, please."

Peter leaned out of his bedroom, maybe eavesdropping, maybe not. He could just barely see his aunt and Wade in the front hallway, the latter grinning as he said, "Miss May," and ducked to kiss her hand.

She laughed and said, "You joker."

"Hey, stop flirting with my aunt!" He let himself hang out into the hall, fingers stuck to the doorframe, and narrowed his eyes at his approaching... comrade. Because they weren't friends. Even though they knew each other's faces and Peter let Wade come to his Aunt's house often enough that she frequently boxed up leftovers or made extra food for him... Even though he'd grown accustomed to Wade's _loquaciousness_ while working on various readings and assignments. Even though he—and he'd never admit this— _enjoyed_ his company.

They were just acquaintances.

"Hey, boy." Wade leaned his forearm against the wall, raising a hand to wave it in front of Peter's face. "Whatcha zonin' out about?"

Oh, whoops. "Nothin'." Peter pulled back into his room, Wade right behind him.

The rambling began pretty much immediately. Peter pretended as though he weren't ignoring every other word out of Wade's mouth, but neither of them was such a fool. Subconsciously, he felt guilt. Just a little bit. Especially when Wade said, "Right?" with an inscrutable expression, well aware that Peter had not been listening one bit.

Shit.

"Uh, yeah—totally."

"Oh, good. I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks dolphins are secretly demons from Hell."

Peter blinked.

This was... vengeance. Or karma. Or something.

He rubbed his forehead, setting his book aside, and mumbled, "Sorry."

"I'm just teasing you, buddy." A smirk, something dark in the back of his eyes. "I'm used to it, anyway."

Okay. Not just a little bit of guilt. A lot of it, actually.

Briefly, the quiet of the room was broken by the rumble of a motorcycle outside—it gave Peter maybe 30 seconds to formulate something to say, but as it turned out, 30 seconds? Not that long, actually. Peter floundered. "Look, Wade—" He raised a hand to hush Wade before he could interrupt. "I just got distracted is all—" Wait, no, bad apology. "I mean. Sorry. Uh... I shouldn't—what you have to say is just as important as anyone else." Better. "I have no excuse. I'm sorry."

A drop of silence, like the skip between a drumbeat.

"Damn, okay." Wade grinned, and either he had a lot of practice faking or it really reached his eyes. "Dork."

Peter made a face. "C'mon, man."

Wade threw an arm around Peter's shoulder, a motion both lighthearted and highly controlled. Strangely tense.

Just then Aunt May peeked into the room, with a gentle rap to the doorframe. "Peter, dear, you promised you'd help me with the ice cream."

"Ice cream?!"

Peter looked back at Wade as he stood. "Special request." He followed his aunt down the hall—sure enough, Wade popped out after a moment and sprinted after them.

"Hot damn!"

Peter rolled his eyes. He did that a lot when Wade was around.

Aunt May organized them into a veritable assembly line, herself overseeing the process while Wade and Peter sliced peaches and measured sugar. Wade actually proved very deft, much neater than Peter, though he had to wear gloves. Even if it weren't a food safety issue, the prospect of peaches or rum in open sores and cuts sounded... less than pleasant. He didn't seem to mind, either way.

"So? What's the occasion?"

A smile creased Aunt May's face and she looked over her shoulder to say, "Can't we make our own special occasions?"

At that, Wade fell uncharacteristically silent. Thoughtful. He nodded. "You know what, you're right." Dropping his voice to a stage-whisper, he leaned over to Peter, all conspiratorial with his hand in front of his mouth—"Your aunt's a visionary, dude."

Peter rolled his eyes (again), as he cranked the ice cream churn—it was older than him, something Aunt May had owned for years, and they finally got the ol' hunk of junk in working order for the summer heat wave. Had him working up a sweat, though... And an appetite.

Luckily, chilled pasta salad awaited him when he finished.

Something about having Wade over always brought the mood up considerably, during dinner. Maybe it was the way he showered Aunt May in compliments, as if he'd never had an olive until that very moment in his life. Maybe just his tendency to spew jokes left and right until something stuck. Aunt May laughed, he laughed, and Peter tried not to laugh at his particularly heinous puns but succumbed anyway, stubbornly hiding behind a forkful of noodles, beans and asparagus.

It was nice to see everyone genuinely happy. To _be_ happy.

"So, Wade, was there any particular reason you came over today? Usually Peter tells me when you're visiting."

"Well, you know what you said earlier... Make your own occasion, right?" That was... a reach. "I was just in the area and I thought I'd stop by." And that was a _lie_ , judging by the way Wade rubbed at the back of his neck as he spoke.

Peter narrowed his eyes at Wade from across the table. He got a wink for his trouble.

"Oh, is that so?"

"...No. My bathroom flooded."

 _Still_ a lie.

"I thought I'd pop over and, you know, use yours. Nothing beats the Parker Porcelain Throne."

Peter let his face fall into his hand. His sweaty palm stuck to his forehead unpleasantly.

But Aunt May seemed to find Wade's false admissions particularly tickling, and laughed.

\--

Later, in his bedroom, Peter asked, "Why'd you _really_ show up today?"

Wade looked... not bashful, exactly. More like a kid who'd been hoping his parents wouldn't ask about the missing cookies in the jar, but, oops, they were asking. He reached for the back of his neck, but then he lowered his arm, fidgeting. "Can't a guy hang out with his BFF?" He picked at the hem of his muscle tee with a huff, spinning slowly in Peter's desk chair. "...Just wanted company, is all."

"Yeah?" Peter leaned back against his pillows, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking one foot over his knee, closing his eyes. The very picture of casual. Or, he hoped so.

Wade poked at Peter's laptop as he spoke. "My bathroom actually did flood, though. Big, too! Shit-water everywhere—It's like Noah's Ark up in that motherfucker."

Peter snorted.

The two of them lapsed into wordlessness.

It had gotten dark, and the streetlights buzzed outside. Wade whispered some song to himself, as he unsuccessfully attempted to break into Peter's computer, and Peter lounged in his bed. The reedy sound of the TV drifted from the living room, merging with Wade's pecking clicks and hums, and it was just... so calm, in that moment. Wade's typing stopped—the mattress shifted as he sat down and flopped onto his back, sideways across the bottom of the bed. He grumbled something Peter couldn't quite make out, even with his advanced physical abilities.

Didn't sound pleasant, though. Peter looked at Wade with one open eye. "So, even Deadpool gets lonely, huh?"

Wade's half-articulated whispers cut off, and he turned his head to meet Peter's stare. "Deadpool? No. Wade Wilson, yes." He cracked a smile.

"Uh-huh," Peter poked Wade with his foot, right in the ribs. "As if the two aren't interchangeable."

"Not in _this_ glorious house, they're not." Wade grabbed Peter's ankle, tugged him down—but playfully, just so Peter's head hit the mattress.

And Peter had to admit, that was fair—about the house. "Good." He propped himself up on his elbows. "I don't even wanna think about what would happen if _Deadpool_ showed up here on a regular basis."

Wade's expression twisted, at that; a dismayed look of disgust, scrunched nose, just shy of aggressive in the way his mouth twitched down at the corners. "Yeah, me neither."

They went quiet again, with Peter's leg half across Wade's torso. Finally, Peter moved—to lay down parallel with Wade, legs dangling off the side of the bed. He didn't say anything. It was just nice to be close to someone, in companionable silence... Or near enough, with Wade's soft half-murmurs occasionally slipping out, repetitive self-soothing utterances. And only _close_ , not touching, because it was still almost 90 degrees at 9 pm, and any prolonged contact could only result in sweat and discomfort.

The heat and the hanging shadows dulled Peter's senses, lulling him half-asleep, so he was almost surprised when something brushed his hand. Almost. But it was just Wade, reaching for him. And maybe any other time Peter would have shied away but... he let Wade take his hand. His skin was rough, scabbed and calloused, and very warm, and a little sweaty; no thanks to the summer heat. But Peter couldn't bring himself to push away such small contact, even as their palms stuck together.

He had a heart, after all.

Eyes closed, he mumbled, "You okay?"

Rather than say anything, Wade twined his fingers together with Peter's and squeezed.

Though he did mutter something to himself. Not for Peter to hear, so Peter didn't.

Almost heavy, drawn-out silence.

"S'there any more pasta salad?"

Peter smiled.

\---

In the morning, Peter woke to his alarm—it was useful to set a consistent, daily schedule to keep him optimized for his Masters' program even when he didn't have classes—aaaaand.... the smell of burning. Not like, dangerous burning. More like the burning of a slightly-too-hot frying pan, seeping through the whole house, smoky and insistent through the open bedroom door. He rubbed his eyes before pushing himself upright. It was...warm. 7 am, and already he'd started to sweat as the early morning sun streamed in between the cracks of his blinds. He opted not to put pants on.

 If he had to subject Wade and Aunt May to his zombie-patterned boxer briefs to keep from melting out of his skin, so be it.

Well, in fairness, he _had_ slept like that, so it wasn't like neither had seen him in such a state. But it was _different_ in the light of day, with his hair sticking straight out on one side and his cheek red and imprinted with pillow marks.

In the kitchen, Wade was dressed, singing the chorus of "Dancing Queen" softly to himself, frying up an ungodly pile of sausage and eggs. Peter sat at the table and watched him work, noting just how much skin he'd hidden under layers of fabric. But Wade didn't seem uncomfortable, even as smoke and steam coalesced around him.

In the middle of a line, Wade snapped his attention to Peter and said, "Your fridge was drier than the Sahara so I took the liberty of running down to the store to get some eggs and shit." He twirled the stove knob 'til it clicked off, and added to his pile of breakfast food. "I didn't know how much to make but I figured, hey, we've got two super-metabolisms in the house, so I made, like, a lot." He grinned. "Don't eat it all."

"Yeah?" Peter hauled himself to his feet, headed straight for the fridge as Wade dropped back into some indistinct humming. He opened the door, reveled in the wafting cool air, and balked at not just the carton of eggs, but also another package of breakfast links, a full gallon of milk, some jam, canned fruit, a new tub of butter, cream cheese—way more than he expected. "Yo, dude, you didn't have to buy us groceries." He looked over his shoulder at Wade's back, loathe to close the refrigerator and lose its cooling air.

Wade paused in his half-dancing movements, as he scraped himself a pile of eggs and meat. He sort of looked in Peter's direction, though he didn't quite make eye contact, and gave him a crooked, almost guilty smile. "I know, I know, you hate asking for help or whatever, but I figured it was the least I could do, considering I ate like..." He counted on his fingers. "...a gallon of pasta last night."

Fair enough.

Finally, with a sigh of great tragedy, Peter closed the fridge and let himself be embraced by the increasingly sweaty arms of summer...

Speaking of which—"Hey, man, aren't you hot?"

Wade looked down at himself. "Who, me?" He swished his hips a little. "Not really. Skirt's plenty cool, and you know how compression tights are for temperature managem—"

"I meant the hoodie, you goof."

"Ah." Wade lifted a finger to his lips, conspiratorially. "I'm shirtless under here."

Peter rolled his eyes and grabbed himself a plate. "It's still got long sleeves."

Wade nodded. "And fleece. Real cozy."

"Right. And _fleece_."

And the hood up.

Wade started up his humming again while they ate, the same bar repeated over and over as he moved his head and shoulders imperceptibly. A tiny motion back and forth, hypnotically rhythmic. Peter turned his attention to the clock, and his food, and the occasional pop as the frying pan cooled on the burner. Birds outside chirped, but fewer than usual. The floor creaked, and he glanced back toward the hallway as Aunt May emerged with a yawn.

She always woke around ten minutes after him, and now, as always, gave Peter a peck on the forehead on her way past. "My, my. What an impressive breakfast. I didn't even know we had eggs left!"

Wade beamed at her.  "The 'Pool provides."

"Oh, you shouldn't have, dear."

Still beaming, then bashfully looking away with one hand on his cheek—under his breath, Wade mumbled, "Hear that? She called me 'dear.'"

Peter smiled.

Within the hour, it had gotten significantly hotter.

Wade still seemed largely unbothered, as the three of them sat around the table chatting—Aunt May with a newspaper folded out in front of her, while Wade regaled them with the story of how he had found a stray cat in the backwoods of... someplace Peter had missed the name of.

"Supposed to be over 90 by noon." Aunt May shook her head, half despairing. "I thought I might water my garden but those plants'll just have to wait."

"I can do it if you want, May."

She glanced up at Wade, a little surprised, though she smiled. "Oh, sweetheart, I appreciate the offer but I think it's best if we all stay inside."

She really had a point, for all that Wade seemed content to bundle himself up in the growing heat.

Of course, Peter knew it wasn't some kind of... unbothered, unaffected air keeping Wade in his sweatshirt. He'd slept fully-covered, too, after downing a full two bowls of leftovers. Curled up as close to the wall as possible, in Peter's bed, head half buried under a spare pillow. It was the security afforded by covering himself. He oozed restless energy now, tapping out a constant beat with his fingertips on his knees, legs half drawn up and crossed now that everyone had finished breakfast.

Peter tuned back in to Wade saying, "—can't impose on your guys' hospitality forever. Though it sure beats Casa del Sewage."

"Sure you can." Peter stretched out his legs and propped his feet up on the chair opposite his own. "Aunt May loves fussing over you. Right, Aunt May?" He shot her a playful grin, and she pursed her lips to hold back her own smile.

Wade rubbed his knees, back and forth, back and forth. "Aw, shucks, you guys." And again, that almost bashful smile—he never made that face outside of the confines of the May-and-Peter Parker residence, and Peter couldn't help but wonder what it was about their home that had him so soft. Maybe he just had a mushy spot in his heart for old ladies. Or free food. Okay, yeah, that was probably it.

\--

"Wade Winston Wilson, it is 100 degrees out there—"

"Hey, I've seen way worse!" Wade held his hands up in a placating gesture. "You wouldn't believe how hot it gets in some places. Y'ever been to the jungle in the swing of summer? I don't recommend it—"

"Young man, do you even have water?"

At that, Wade hiked up his skirt, and for a brief second Peter just about had a heart attack—but Wade simply grabbed a water bottle from the holster around his thigh, with a self-satisfied smirk. "I'm fine."

Aunt May glowered at him. "Your face is more flushed than a toilet."

That brought out a perplexed expression from both Peter and Wade, though the latter began to laugh, leaning on the closed front door half-helpless in a fit of giggles. This appeased Aunt May, somewhat, though she still had her arms crossed against her chest. Peter had seen her this way before. No way would Wade convince her to let him go, even if he was right, and would be just fine.

And it wasn't the heat _alone_. Yeah, it was 100 out, and there also wasn't a cloud in sight. Little to no shade, and the air hung thick with humidity and car exhaust. No one was out _or_ about. Not even strays. Not even _birds_.

Wade seemed... irritated. But he let May Parker steer him to the living room, where the air conditioner resided, and allowed himself to be plied with cold water and ice cream.

Good ice cream, too. Peach rum, a little hard but in such high heat that seemed like some kind of blessing. Peter could've eaten a gallon of it, and from the looks of it, he wasn't alone in his desire.

Everyone had calmed, now. At least a little bit. Though Wade hadn't taken off his shoes, or his baseball cap, or even his sunglasses, after Aunt May dragged him back inside. He sat with his head down, leather Deadpool backpack in his lap, empty bowl set aside, cyclically tapping his fingers against his thighs, with his knees half-drawn up. Shoes on the couch cushions, too...

Luckily, Aunt May had actually fallen asleep in the recliner and couldn't see him ruining her upholstery. Peter stood and took her bowl from her loose hands, and turned back to take Wade's bowl as well. Toward the doorway, he paused. Looked back at Wade. "Hey." He nodded toward the other room. "You can hide out in my room, if you want." He didn't wait to hear Wade's response before taking the dirty bowls into the kitchen, but as he rinsed them and set them in the sink, he heard footsteps.

Sure enough, Mister Wilson himself, too hot to argue. He took off his shoes by the front door—hat, too... glasses, bag, one by one, and then he slunk off ahead of Peter, curled in on himself like a bipedal pillbug.

Peter left him in the bedroom, with a fan pointed right at his face and the window blinds shut tight, lights off.

He'd be okay.

And finally... a shower. Cool, just a little lukewarm, and so refreshing. It felt like he scrubbed off a week's worth of sweat, even if it were only like... two days' worth. Nothing better. Of course, with the sticky humidity, the water did little to cool and evaporate outside of the shower. He just felt musty, as he rubbed himself down. And now his hair was wet, too... Gross... But still an improvement, overall. Peter took one last pass at his hair before emerging from the bathroom, into the slightly drier but still damp air of the hallway.

"You awake?" Peter leaned into his bedroom, just able to make out Wade's silhouette in the darkness, slumped over in his bed. He got a grunt in response. "Alright, well, I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

Peter sprawled across the couch to watch TV. Nothing like mindless commercial breaks and melodrama to turn your brain off. Though, really, he probably should have been doing something productive. Anything at all. Too hot to patrol, sure, but he could work on deciding his classes ahead of the fall quarter, or... try to toss out some freelance journalism, see if anyone would bite... But no... Discovery Channel instead. He dozed through some over-dramatic countdown of deadly animals.

His name, whispered from the doorway, jolted him into focus.

Just Wade, standing awkwardly, hands in his pockets (did skirts normally have pockets? He didn't think so.) He'd changed out of his hoodie, into—of all things—a Spider-Man tank-top.  His posture had loosened, and he seemed... calm. Still slouching, but calm.

"Hey." Peter sat up, running a hand back through his hair. "What's up?"

 Wade glanced over at Aunt May, still asleep, before asking, "Can I have some more of that ice cream?"

And who was Peter to say no?

They sat in the kitchen eating ice cream together, lights off but sun shining through the windows. Wade kept pausing, like he wanted to say something, but then he'd shove his spoon into his mouth with a frown.

Peter liked it better when he talked too much.

Not that he could begrudge him feeling shitty in _this_ weather.

Finally—"Thanks."

Peter raised an eyebrow, questioning.

"Just for whatever." Wade shrugged. "You know. Giving me space. And stuff."

"No problem, man." Peter smiled at him, and he got a little bit of a smile back—good enough for him. "Sometimes you just need to be alone; I know how it is."

"Yeah?" A pause. "Yeah."

They sat in companionable quietude, Wade sing-talking under his breath (again), not quite forming coherent words though the overall tune felt familiar but not... quite. Oh that was gonna bother Peter _all day_. But it was nice. Something about his grumbly tone, and the softness of it all. Even if it was still hot as Hell and Peter had to periodically peel his shirt from his skin to get some air in.

"Once it cools down, I'm probably gonna head out."

Peter nodded. "Cool. "

Ha.

 _Cool_.

The temperature dropped drastically around dinner time, and the evening found Peter and his aunt seeing Wade off—but not before insisting he take a Tupperware container of leftovers with him. They taped an ice pack to it, shoved it into his bag, and he was off, sweatshirt tied around his waist and pristine white baseball cap shading his eyes from the sunset.

"He really is a nice young man."

Peter grinned. "You think so?"

Aunt May gave him a teasing look. "I know so."


	2. Class Pickup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked up, and Wade still watched him. If Peter didn't know any better, he would have said he seemed thoughtful. But this was Wade Wilson he was thinking of. Renowned for his thoughtlessness, and general... Wade-ness.

"Parker, your boyfriend's here."

"What?" Peter frowned, as he looked up from his backpack, halfway packed. "I don't have a—" Oh. It was Wade. He probably should have been able to figure that one out. With a sigh, he shoved the rest of his stuff into his bag, hauled it onto his shoulder, and half-jogged over to the door.

"Hey." He grabbed Wade's sleeve and led him out of the room. "What's up?" He thought he could pick up whispers from the classroom, something about someone being smitten... but then the heavy wooden door swung shut and cut them off.

Wade let himself be dragged down the hallway—well, dragged was a _strong_ word, in Peter's opinion. More like firmly guided. Either way, he wore a goofy smile plastered across his face, and when they finally stopped by the exit he tilted his baseball cap by the brim and said, "I have a surprise for you."

Oh no.

"No, come on, don't look at me like that—" Wade held a finger up. "I swear it's good."

Peter grabbed his finger, not reassured at all but smiling anyway. "And I swear, if you're messing with me..."

Wade winked at him, making to lean close and bite at his hand, but Peter let him go first, and shifted away.

As if people didn't already talk.

They left campus together, though Wade insisted they make a quick pit stop to change. Not a big deal for Peter, with his suit under his clothes. In and out of a stall, no big deal. But Wade had to actually undress and redress and complained about having "left his jockstrap at home."

"Tighty-whities. No support."

"Alright, did you kidnap me just to tell me what kind of underwear you prefer or do you actually have a point to all this?"

"First of all, Webs—" Wade tugged his mask on as he emerged in all his leather-clad, try-hard glory. "I didn't kidnap you." He put a finger to his chin. "Second of all, you have no patience." He beckoned Peter after him, as he made to leave the building.

Peter slung his bag over his shoulder with a sigh, but he followed Wade.

It was...nice out. Cool, but not cold. Just starting to smell like fall, with the trees turning yellow and dropping leaves in a carpet across the pavement. Clear, a little breezy. The two of them just walked together for a while, with Wade telling stories as they went, having put his baseball cap back on and fiddling with it occasionally. Peter wavered between trailing behind him and keeping step with him, and Wade just went with it, tapping his thighs absentmindedly as he spoke.

Up until they came across a cruddy looking building. Some kind of old office or something, for sale.

"This way." Wade grabbed Peter's hand and tugged him closer. He pointed up at a ledge. "Beam me up, Spidey."

Peter rolled his eyes but he let Wade wrap around him like some kind of sweaty octopus and webbed them up the side of the building.

It was just a ledge.

Some graffiti, sure, but pretty boring otherwise.

"I don't see why you—"

"Shhhhhhh..." Wade crouched down in the corner. "C'mere."

Reluctantly, Peter sank to his haunches beside Wade.

"Oh, _what_?"

It was a tiny little _door_. With a little functioning doorknob and everything—it opened with a brief squeak, on a painting the size of a playing card, depicting what looked like a replica of that one Klimt painting—"The Kiss," Peter thought it was called. Gold and metallic and tiny.

Wade looked at Peter expectantly.

"Okay, maybe this _is_ kind of cool. Just a little bit."

Wade crossed his arms.

Peter sighed. "Fine. A lot cool." He pushed at Wade's shoulder half-heartedly. "How'd you find it, anyway?"

"Oh, buddy," Wade laughed. "You don't wanna know."

Hm. There did seem to be some suspicious traces of dried blood on the ledge, so... yeah, maybe better not to ask...

Still.

Peter fiddled with the little door. "I wonder why they made it..."

He didn't get an answer. He looked up, and Wade still watched him. If Peter didn't know any better, he would have said he seemed thoughtful. But this was _Wade Wilson_ he was thinking of. Renowned for his thoughtlessness, and general... Wade-ness.

"You're staring."

Peter turned his attention back to the door. " _You're_ staring."

Wade didn't dignify that with a real response, just a snort, as he sat down fully. But he stopped watching Peter and looked over at a half-broken window a couple of feet away. His fingers tapped a beat on the mossy tiles. Peter flopped down cross-legged beside him, and the two of them leaned against the wall side-by-side. A raven perched in a tree nearby, occasionally hopping along its branch and croaking.

One particular croak set Wade off, snickering to himself. "It sounds like it's gargling a chicken."

Peter grinned. "I mean, I guess?"

"Come on." Wade got up, and walked over to the edge of their little ledge. Before Peter could follow, he hopped over, letting himself fall to the ground below. Judging by the loud thump and various colorful muffled curses, he landed badly.

Peter leaned over to look down at him. Yup. Bad landing. "Did you just break your ankle?"

Wade flipped him off.

Peter blew him a kiss before hopping down to land much more nimbly. Light and easy.

"You know, sometimes I really hate you."

"Uh-huh." Peter offered his hand to help Wade to his already-healed feet. "That's why you show up to pick me up from class like... almost every day." He folded his fingers down as he counted. "And visit me and Aunt May at least once a month," He paused. "And why you showed me that little door. Cause you hate me, so you show me fine art."

Wade brushed himself off and grumbled, "Point made like a sharpened pencil." He stretched, cracking his back with a grunt and rolling his shoulders. "You smug little bug."

"Hey," Peter set off back toward civilization, leaving the dilapidated building behind. "You love me."

With a scoff, Wade followed after him. "You wish! I only hang around for your aunt's cooking!"

"I thought it was my stunning good looks!" Peter broke into a run.

"Hey!"

Maybe it was childish, for them to go sprinting off—Wade hot on Peter's heels like some glorified game of tag—but Peter found himself laughing when he let Wade catch up with him, let him wrap his arms around Peter's waist in a half-hearted attempt to tackle him to the ground. Instead they just stumbled, and under his breath Wade muttered, "You think you're hot shit, huh?"

Winded—"Maybe."

They were very close.

Peter extracted himself from Wade's grasp and took a moment to recalibrate their surroundings, regain his bearings. A couple people stared—and yeah, what an odd sight they must have been, with Deadpool doubled over to catch his breath and Spider-Man adjusting his backpack like it were any normal day.

But people are people, and they eventually turned their attention elsewhere once it became clear that there was no frenemy dueling or superhero drama going on.

As Spider-Man and Deadpool, they spent maybe an hour on patrol, but it was a quiet evening for once, so they changed back into their civilian clothes, and as the sunset reflected in the windows of skyscrapers and apartments alike, Peter let Wade walk him home. If a few people stared at Peter Parker and his scarred friend, he pretended not to notice, and so did Wade. Probably for different reasons. But on the doorstep, it didn't really matter. Not with the way Wade tugged his cap over his eyes as he said,

"See you soon?"

Peter smiled. "I don't think I have any choice in the matter." He gave Wade's shoulder a friendly pat before letting himself inside. "Bye."

He just caught Wade's soft "...yeah. Bye." before he shut the door.

He couldn't quite explain why that made him feel guilty.

A few seconds passed...

He threw open the door and shouted after Wade's retreating form—"You better walk me home tomorrow, too!"

Wade's posture straightened, as he looked back over his shoulder with a grin. "You betcha, sweet cheeks!" He saluted.

Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Gustav Klimt's "The Kiss" because I googled "famous paintings" and it was one of the ones that showed up that had good dimensions for a mini doorway.  
> It worked out in my favor though..... ;3c


	3. Being There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank the Devil for Wade Wilson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some blood and injury in it just as a heads up.

They were very close.

Literally, physically. Peter with his head leaned back against the brick wall of a sweating alleyway, lit by orange reflected off the side of a dumpster, and Wade's head in his lap, leaking blood with his mask on the dirty ground by his shoulder. Peter had one hand on the side of Wade's face, the other under his chin, holding his partially severed jaw in place as it knitted itself back together. Neither spoke, Wade for obvious reasons, as he regained consciousness... Peter too focused on holding his nerves in check, half holding his breath.

The sharp pressure of Wade's fingertips digging into his forearm kept him... aware.

When it softened, Peter drew in a sharp breath, and looked down. Wade grinned up at him.

Peter let his jaw go, to wipe the blood off on his already soaked suit as Wade sat up with a groan.

"Woo!" Wade rolled his shoulders and inspected his chest, prodding at the hole-filled black and red leather as he said, "Thanks for that, Spidey. Normally I'd do it myself but—" He held out his newly reattached arms. "Well, you know." He sighed and pulled at his now-detachable sleeves with a grumble.

Ok, so this wasn't the first time this had happened—especially not for Wade—but... Peter still couldn't quite catch his breath. He tugged his mask off and rubbed his face, forgetting the half-dried blood on his hands until it flaked across his skin. He grimaced. Then he sighed.

Wade grabbed a pack of wet wipes from somewhere in his endless pockets and pouches and held them out. "Here."

"...Thanks." Peter wiped his hands down, but despaired at his legs. He'd need to give his suit _and_ his underwear a serious washing later, and he honestly wasn't sure what he'd say to Aunt May if she caught him. Maybe he could stop at the laundromat...

Wade reached out to him, with a little rap on the chin. "Hey." He tilted Peter's head up. "Don't get lost in there. I'm no good at mazes."

Peter rolled his eyes, turning his chin away from Wade's hand.

"There we go!"

"You're obnoxious." Peter pushed at Wade's arm, half-heartedly annoyed, and pushed himself to his feet. It must have been close to two in the morning already, later than Peter usually let himself stay out on patrol, but, hey, sometimes things don't go as planned. At all.

Wade wrapped an arm around his shoulder, all camaraderie as Peter pulled his mask back on and they left the blood-stained alley behind.

Could've been Peter's blood if Wade hadn't jumped in front of him.

Nearly was anyway. That whipped out blade to the jaw, clean through the side of Wade's face; nearly stabbed Peter's eye out. Through both of Wade's arms, nearly hit his shoulders—the intended target. At least the human torso was thicker. And Peter, around Wade's body, shot his webbing, acting on all animal instinct—and he just ripped the robot's damn head off. It had collapsed in a clatter of metal, while Wade, too, fell to the ground. Dead, temporarily. How was Peter supposed to react? Just because he'd been around Wade long enough to see his healing factor at work didn't mean—

"You're doing the thing again."

Peter blinked. "What?"

"The thinking thing." Wade tugged Peter closer, tapping his temple with his free hand. "We missed our turn."

Oh, yeah, they should have turned onto that street back there.

"Sorry, I guess I just got distracted."

Wade shook his head. "You know, space cadet superheroes usually wind up dead."

"Good thing I've got you." Peter pushed Wade off of him with a smirk. "My _hero_."

A gasp, scandalized and over-dramatic. "You take that back."

Peter laughed, come to a stop to wait for Wade. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about how you pulled a 'Mr. President' on me."

Wade slapped a palm to his forehead. "I did, didn't I?!"

"My personal bodyguard."

They kept walking even as Wade began tearing off the cut-up parts of his costume, shoving them into his utility belt with no apparent rhyme or reason.

With a smirk, then a full smile—absolutely shit-eating—Peter interrupted Wade's fussing to say,

"You know, I hear boob windows are gonna be all the rage next spring."

Wade raised a finger. "Don't tempt me, Webs."

"Speaking of webs." Peter shot a line to the nearest, tallest building he could and nodded toward it. "Let me drop you off at home."

Barely the blink of an eye passed before Wade grabbed onto Peter's shoulders, despite saying, "You really don't need to do that, I can just call a taxi." But his arms held tight, and Peter ducked his head with a soft laugh before grappling them up into the night.

\---

Sure enough, when he got home—

"Peter Parker, I know you're an adult but it is 3 am!"

"I'm sorry, Aunt May, I really didn't mean to stay out so late." He carefully kept his bag out of her view. "I was with Wade, and we lost track of time, and my phone died." Technically all truths.

She slightly relaxed, at that. But she still said, "Well, next time... just try to let me know."

Fair.

"I will, I promise."

She let Peter kiss her cheek goodnight, as much the reassuring young man he could muster as he tried to escape her worried and all-too-penetrative eyes.

"I'll see you in the morning, Aunt May." He closed his bedroom door behind him and let out the longest sigh probably ever, sinking down to sit on the floor for a minute.

He probably _should_ have stopped at the laundromat on the way home, like he'd intended, and just washed his suit there, though... that wouldn't have helped his stained dance belt. Generally, public establishments frowned on full nudity while washing one's underthings. And yes, he wore a dance belt on patrol, so sue him. Just because he didn't want everyone and their mother to see the outline of his dick every time he swung through the city...

"God..." Peter buried his face in his hands for a just a moment. They smelled like blood and hand sanitizer.

At least Aunt May slept like a rock.

Perfect for doing pre-dawn laundry.

Thank God he didn't have class in the morning.

And, apparently, thank the Devil for Wade Wilson.

A playful rap at the door woke him at 9 am. That was, what? Four hours of sleep, maybe.

And there was Wade, clearly audible from down the hall, asking Aunt May, "Can Peter come out and play?" in the most obnoxious way he could. And of course, Aunt May laughed, before telling him to wait. Her footsteps came closer, and then a little quiet knock.

"You awake?" She opened the door just a little crack to peer into Peter's room.

Peter just groaned.

He heard his aunt return to Wade at the front door to tell him, "He'll be out in a minute, if you'd like to wait inside."

Of course.

Damn you, Aunt May...

Well, no, it wasn't _her_ fault. Peter was just grumpy. He let out a long-suffering sigh as he forced himself out of bed. Birds, chirping... Wade and Aunt May, talking... Peter, very tired. He searched for something clean to wear—ironic, considering he'd been up for _two hours_ doing laundry last night. But not normal laundry, no. He emerged looking like a college student. Which he _was_ , to be fair. Let it never be said that Peter Parker wasn't exactly what he said he was, 90% of the time.

"Aren't you _tired_?" Peter put his hands on his hips as he stared Wade down.

Wade looked up from his phone, where he sat at the kitchen table. "Oh," He put a finger to his lips. "That's my secret, Pete. I'm always tired."

Peter rubbed his hands down his face and made his way over to the fridge, running his fingers through his hair as he considered what to eat. Grapes? Sure. Omelet? Yeah, okay. Easy enough. He grabbed what he needed and glanced over his shoulder. "Eggs?"

"They sure are, Pete." Wade tilted back in his chair with a grin when Peter glared at him. "I ate on the way here. But thanks." He winked, crossing his arms behind his head. "But... in the future...You know your way to my heart."

God.

What an insufferable tool.

"Why are you _here_?"

Okay, maybe Peter was the tool, in this scenario.

Wade let his chair tip back down with a clack. "You _wound_ me!" Hand to his heart, he gave Peter a truly tragic expression that the most experienced of dramatic actors would envy. And then, of course, he grinned. "Come on, Peter." He stood, and moved around the table, closer to the counter and the stove and Peter himself. "Cheer up." He held out his hands, head ducked just a little, so their eyes were level as he crooned, "It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood..."

"Please don't." Peter cracked an egg. He spoke deadpan, "I beg of you."

But of course, Wade never backed down that easy.

"A beautiful day for a neighbor—"

Peter narrowed his eyes at him. "We're not even _neighbors_."

"Would you be mine?" Wade's eyes danced with a certain playfulness.

"Wade."

"Could you be mine?"

Peter couldn't help but grin, even as he cooked his omelet.

"Ha!" Wade laughed, then. "I _knew_ I could get you to crack."

"Fuck you." But he didn't mean it.

With a gasp, Wade muttered, "Such _language_. "

Peter plated his food. "You're the worst, I swear." But he was still smiling, even as he shoved halfheartedly at Wade on his way to the table.

\--

Turned out, when Wade quoted everyone's favorite neighbor, he hadn't been lying. It was, in Peter's own words, "flipping gorgeous" outside, the height of a mild fall morning rare to see even in the best years. Yellow and scarlet leaves everywhere, just dry enough to crackle under their feet. The slightest chill breeze with the smell of autumn laced throughout. Barely cloudy, covering the otherwise blue sky. Spiders had woven an impressive complex of webs across the fences and hedges, and Peter pulled his jacket close as they made their leisurely way down the block.

"Hey..." Wade walked with his hands in the pockets of his coat, not a hoodie for once, but a surprisingly tasteful  black peacoat. "About last night." Of course, underneath he wore some kind of reindeer-patterned abomination of an absolutely premature Christmas sweater, so... You win some, you lose some.

Peter glanced over at him. "What?"

He got an insincere eyebrow waggle, and a "Well, usually I don't do dismemberment until the third date."

God forbid Wade Wilson be sincere, after all.

Peter rolled his eyes. And honestly, if he planned to keep spending time with Wade like this, he needed to find an alternative to eye-rolling or eventually they'd just fall right out of his head.

"Fine." Wade stopped. "Don't laugh at me."

Peter nodded, and stopped as well. But he didn't interrupt.

"I just wanted to say thanks, like, for real." Wade shrugged awkwardly, as best he could with his hands in his pockets. "It sounds dumb when I try to say it out loud but it was nice to have someone there, you know? Not just nearby, but _there_."

"I—" Peter frowned. "Well, I mean—" How to say what he needed to say...? Or, what Wade needed to hear, more correctly. "I mean." He sighed. "You're my _friend_."

Wade slipped right back into his drama and facades, hand to his mouth like some starlet. "He said the F-word!" He grabbed Peter in a tight hug before he could move out of the way—or maybe he didn't want to move out of the way—and squeezed him. "This is going right into my diary!"

Peter let himself endure (enjoy?) the hug for as long as he could, with a half-hearted, "You dummy," before pushing away, maybe a little embarrassed, but... softly smiling anyway. Mushy... He set off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk, not waiting to see if Wade kept up (but knowing he would, hearing his footsteps and sensing the displacement of air from his movements—spider senses really were convenient.)

Eventually, Peter had to ask—"Was that really all? You just wanted to say thanks?"

"Well," Wade tugged at his beanie, some kind of nervous tic. " _Sure_."

"Why so early, then? Why today, and not, I dunno, one of the usual times we meet?"

Wade grinned. "To annoy you, of course."

Peter shot him an unimpressed look. "Right. Okay."

"Come on!" Wade grabbed him, momentum pulling them both into a brief twirl, caught off-balance. "Can't a guy hang out with his friend just 'cause?" He walked backwards as he spoke, his fingers loose around Peter's upper arm.

...He had a point.

But Wade Wilson never did anything "just 'cause."

Peter pointed out as much—"You always have _some_ kind of ulterior motive."

Wade wrinkled his nose, at that, and finally let Peter's arm go. Though he still walked backwards. "Maybe my ulterior motive is 'I like being around you.' Huh? Friendship?" He shot Peter a pair of finger-guns and a wink, as if he had somehow made some salient, thoughtful point. "Friends do things together."

"Okay." No point in pushing further.

Wade turned back around to walk normally, with his hands shoved back into his coat pockets and a little bounce in his step.


	4. Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you call a jealous salad?

You would think Peter Parker would have learned to tie a tie by now, but there he was, scowling at himself in the mirrored walls of the elevator, failing to get anything presentable out of this cursed strip of silk, or satin, or whatever it was. He should have gone for the clip-on. Infinitely easier. Who cared about authenticity? As long as it did the job, right?

The elevator dinged.

"Oh...Em...Gee..."

Ah, _shit_.

"What the—what are you _doing_ here?"

What he really meant was, "as Deadpool." But he left that part out.

"That's a great question." Wade ran his hand across a swath of buttons, seemingly for fun, all without breaking eye contact—well, if Peter could _see_ his eyes under the mask, that was. "I would tell you, but I just forgot."

Peter scrunched up his face and said, "What do you mean you _forgot_?"

"What I mean is..." Wade-as-Deadpool moved closer, and grabbed Peter's tie in one hand, the other lingering around the holster on his hip as if he expected trouble. "This awful excuse for a Windsor blew all the thoughts right out of my head." Just then, the elevator dinged again, and before the doors had even finished opening Wade had pulled his pistol without even looking.

The man on the other side put his hands up with a yelp, dropping his coffee.

The doors slid shut, and Wade holstered his gun in favor of undoing all of Peter's hard work.

Again, a ding—"Oh, for the love of—I brought this on myself."

No one was outside of the elevator, this time. It was just that, in his impulsive button-pressing, Wade had ensured their trip would come to a lurching stop at every floor for the next... seven floors at least, by Peter's count. He made to speak, as the doors began to close, but before he could get a word out, Wade grabbed him and pulled him out of the elevator by the lapels. The doors juddered, opened, finally closed in full with the two of them standing out in the deserted hallway.

"Wade."

" _Deadpool_." Wade smoothed down the front of Peter's blazer, then took him by the shoulders and spun him to face the half-reflective metal of the exterior doors. He straightened out Peter's loosed tie and set to work. "Sorry, I only know how to tie in first-person."

Peter made a face. "That's not—I don't care about that." He gestured toward their reflections. "I wanna know why you're here, at the place I'm currently attempting to _interview_ for, and which I'll have you know, I am already late for."

Wade didn't respond until he'd gotten Peter's necktie cleanly knotted and laying flat, after which he finally said, "Ooh, a job interview?" He patted Peter's shoulders with no small measure of glee. Dodging the question, of course.

With a huff, Peter turned to face him. "I—" He frowned. "Thanks for doing that, by the way. And _yes_." He jabbed Deadpool in the chest, none too gently. "I'm here for a job interview, but I'm not gonna let you just change the subject." He stared Wade down.

"I may or may not have been hired to teach who I assume is your potential future boss a lesson about keeping his hands to himself."

Peter gawked. "With a _gun_?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Wade's grin showed through his mask as he pulled his pistol back out, aimed at the ceiling and—drawing a flinch from Peter—pulled the trigger.

A stream of water shot out.

"It's fake."

Peter let out a heavy sigh, and ran his hand through his hair, ruining the neatness he had fought so hard for that morning. Oh well. "I guess I won't stop you, since you're not technically doing anything _wrong_." He put his hands on his hips, stern. "But you better not mess up my interview."

A pause. And then Wade said, "No promises." He mussed up Peter's hair even worse and took off toward the exit, disappearing into the stairwell to enact whatever dastardly water gun-based threats he intended to carry out. Peter tried to fix his hair, gave up, stood forlornly for a moment, and finally went to call another elevator.

His phone buzzed as he waited.

A text from "Pool Boy B)" (who had put his name in himself, and which Peter hadn't bothered to change.)

_btw u look nice._

Peter wasn't going to bother to text him back—but nope, he had to reply, he couldn't just let a text message sit like that.

 _Thx_.

He pocketed his phone as the elevator arrived.

Okay. Time to be serious.

\--

As it turned out, the interviewer did not look kindly on tardiness, or the fact that Peter had unwittingly worn the _wrong color of shoes_ to go with his suit and, wow, okay, maybe Peter didn't want to work at such a judgmental establishment _anyway_. He sat silently fuming at the bus stop, tapping said shoes—too pale of a caramel for a charcoal suit, the man had said—against the stained concrete as he waited.

What a jerk.

Peter loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt to feel a little less stuffy. And, wow, judging by how smoothly his tie came undone—easy, but not _too_ easy—Wade really knew his way around a knot. Or maybe Peter was just that bad at tying them himself. It really could go either way.

"Yoo-hoooo~"

Ah, speak of the devil.

"How'd it go?" Wade plopped down beside Peter, leaning toward him with his chin in his hands.

Peter shrugged. Then put his face in his hands with a groan.

"That bad, huh?"

Peter nodded.

Wade reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "If it makes you feel any better, I made the boss-man cry."

"Really?"

Wade peeled his mask up over his nose with a... a very tender smile, actually. "Like a _baby_." He paused, then—"Hey, put 'er there."

He held his hand out for a high-five, but Peter ended up just kind of... grabbing his hand with a half-hearted smile. Wade didn't seem to mind much, and, with all the bravado of a Victorian suitor from a period drama, caught Peter's fingers with his own to give him a kiss on the back of the hand. He grinned, and let Peter's hand go.

Peter wrinkled his nose. "What was that for?"

Wade shrugged. "Impulse." He looked past Peter, alert. "Here comes your bus. Time for me to take my leave." He stood and tipped an imaginary hat at Peter before running across the street and diving over a hedge.

...What a dork.

The bus pulled up, and by the time Peter sat down, Wade had disappeared completely. Off to do whatever nefarious non-crimes he planned on doing... Or maybe he was just hiding in the bushes. Peter sighed and leaned his head against the window for the split second it took him to remember not to lean his head on the window of a moving bus. He rubbed his forehead with a grimace and settled for staring out at traffic.

His phone buzzed with another text.

_u look cute with your shirt unbuttoned like that._

Peter pursed his lips, but tapped out a quick reply.

_You say that to all the boys and girls, don’t you?_

Another buzz.

_sorry. i can stop._

Wow, okay. Now Peter felt kinda bad. He debated sending his next message, but...

_It's okay. It's kinda nice to be complimented by someone other than my aunt._

It felt like a long time passed until the next text, but finally...

_only yr aunt?! surely a prettyboy like PP must get all the ladies ;)_

Peter snorted.

_Oh sure, the old ladies at the soup kitchen love me._

Buzz.

_srsly. u could be a model if you were taller._

God.

_Okay, you *definitely* say that to all the boys and girls._

Wade sent him a winky face.

Peter closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, trying his best to ignore the thousands of tiny sounds that filled the bus.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Jeez. Peter looked at his phone with a not-so-subtle grumble. "Just put it all in one message, man."

_pete. petey. peter._

_what do you call a jealous salad._

_guess_.

Peter stared blankly at his phone. _Idk_ , he typed. _What?_

His phone vibrated with _four_ separate messages, and he frowned.

_..._

_..._

_..._

_greens with envy!_

Boy, he could just imagine Wade's goofy-ass, self-amused laugh.

Okay... maybe it was a _little_ funny.

_Haha. Stop sending a bunch of texts all at once. It makes me jumpy._

Wade sent him a frowny face. And then: _no sweat, hot stuff_ _;)_

Well. It was a start. Maybe.

The bus ride felt like ages. Peter probably should have worn his web-shooters and just swung home, but... He just felt weird about it. And look where it got him. Bored, rejected, stuck on under-funded public transportation. Kind of wishing Wade would text him more, but not really willing to start up a conversation himself.

Peter checked his phone, pretending to himself that he just wanted to know the time, but still disappointed at the lack of new messages. "You doofus..."

Somehow, he survived.

Only to have to break the news to Aunt May that he hadn't even been allowed to _do_ the interview.

"Oh, Peter." She comforted him, but he still felt like... maybe she was disappointed. But it's not like it was a big deal, right? It was just a part time job, temporary, mostly for the winter since the end of fall quarter was coming up, and, it's not like she actually expected Peter to have a real job while also getting his Master's... But...

He still felt like a failure.

He gave Aunt May a hug and retreated to his bedroom to mope, and to not have to feel her concern. Though, he supposed, isolating himself would probably make her more concerned but he just needed some quiet, and probably a nap.

Even though it was like, noon.

And he was hungry.

When his phone vibrated on his desk, he nearly leapt out of his skin with a yelp, before registering what it actually _was_.

Just a text message.

_u want lunch? I'm buying_

Peter hmmmmmed to himself.

_IDK. What's on the menu?_

He probably should have turned Wade down straight away, but... he _did_ like free food...

_i'm thinkin greek_

"Ooh..." Peter texted back, " _Gyros?_ "

_hell yeah baby. can i take ur order?_

Well, how could Peter resist that? He sent his request, feeling... much better than he had five minutes ago. Funny how the prospect of food could lift his spirits so much.

_i'll bring em over. ask ur aunt what she wants_

Aw. Wade really could be sweet when he wanted.

Peter hurried out to the living room. "Aunt May!" He leaned his head in, as she muted the TV. "Wade's bringing us gyros. What do you want?"

"Oh, he doesn't have to do that—" She made a big show of not wanting to be a hassle, but at Peter's insistence, she caved. Peter threw himself down on the couch as he texted Wade back, glancing up at the show Aunt May was watching. Some kind of Cold War documentary or something... Way over-dramatic, and possibly a little too patriotic but what else was new.

He fell asleep with his phone on his chest.

"Peter!"

"What!" Peter sat up with a jolt and his phone clattered to the floor.

He took a moment to catch his breath as both Wade _and_ Aunt May laughed at him, and finally shot Wade a glare.

Wade leaned on the doorway with a smirk. "Aren't you supposed to have some kinda... " With his free hand, he circled a finger around his temple. "Tingle?" He tossed the greasy paper bag in his other hand at Peter, who caught it with a flinch.

"Sure," Peter glanced at his aunt, but she was already on her way to the kitchen, and probably not listening. "For _danger_." He hauled himself to his feet, ducking to grab his phone before squeezing past Wade to get to the kitchen. He shot over his shoulder, "Greasy food isn't dangerous."

"I mean." Wade watched him with a smile. "I think most doctors would disagree."

Okay...

True.

Peter leveled an unamused look at Wade, pausing by the kitchen table. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

Wade laughed.

They ended up sitting together on the roof.

Aunt May had actually planned to be at the soup kitchen in an hour, so she left her food in the fridge and left Peter and Wade alone with an earnest "You two be good." And what better way to be good than to climb the side of the house and sit on the shingles, side by side, dipping french fries in tzatziki sauce and eating gyros.

It was a little chilly out, and Wade wore some kind of... well, it had to be a scarf but it looked more like the yarn aisle of a craft store trying to strangle him to death. And what a cozy, cozy death that would have been. The breeze picked up and Peter pulled his collar close with a shiver, crumpling up the paper bag with its remnants of napkins and grease and potato crumbs.

One warm arm wrapped around his shoulders—and when Peter looked up at Wade, Wade looked away, off down the street with half a smile and his other hand tapping on his knee with nervous energy. Peter wrinkled his nose, but leaned into the partial embrace.

Eventually, he ventured, "You're awfully quiet today."

"Good or bad?"

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Depends on why."

Wade grinned, and gave Peter a squeeze. "Just thinkin' about your pretty blue eyes."

"...My eyes are _brown_."

"I know." Wade finally actually looked at him, mischief painted all over his face, and if Peter read him right, a little bit of tension. In his shoulders, in the unconscious tightness of his jaw, even as the corners of his eyes creased and it all melted away with laughter.

Peter pushed against him a little, but not with any real intent. "You're weird."

Wade twisted his face. "So I hear." Still, he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with that joke all by myself. Are you proud, ma?


	5. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sky was very dark, clear of clouds and jet black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's from Wade's POV.  
> There's a brief mention of broken bones but it's pretty vague.  
> Enjoy :3

"I'll give you a dollar if you go an hour without swearing."

Wade turned to Peter with the most offended expression he could muster. The audacity. The sheer... audacity. "How _dare_ you."

Oh, but that face. Those eyes. That absolutely not-at-all serious smile—Wade crossed his arms, as accusatory as he could manage toward Peter's tousled bedhead and rumpled shirt. "I don't need your dirty money."

Peter's grin widened.

Teasing.

" _Fine_ ," Wade pointed a finger at him. "I bet you ten bucks I can go the whole day without swearing."

What a shit-eating—aw, fuck.

This... was a mistake.

But if he didn't talk all day, maybe that would work. He knew sign language, he could just use that. Well... no, now that he thought of it, his ASL was about as vulgar as his spoken word, and Peter probably didn't know any. Or if he did, it was like... "Thanks." Though, that could theoretically be used to Wade's advantage—no, what was he doing.

It was a simple challenge.

Which he had brought on himself, entirely.

Just don't swear for like... until the next morning.

Easy.

Within the hour, he found himself... tested.

"Moooootherf....ffffffffffrappucino piece of shhhhhhhhhut _up_ , this is hard, I am doing my best, stop laughing—" Wade pulled a shard of glass from his arm with a none-too-pleased noise. Sure, he always hurt. But damn, he didn't need more hurt on top of the already-present hurt. 24/7 skin crawling and itching and stinging didn't need stab pain added on. At least, not like this. Maybe in a more intimate context, he'd be down with it, but not on the cold concrete floor of some godforsaken warehouse where they probably made glass bottles in the 50's—

His train of thought was derailing.

"Hey!" He pointed his blood-stained arm-shard at Spider-Man, who was just outside with his leg half over the sill. "If you think you can just climb through the window I so _graciously_ broke with my body—you are absolutely right, please, use me as a welcome mat."

Peter, for all that he probably wanted to (or was that projection?), did not step on Wade. He hauled himself through the window, picking his way around shattered glass with all his awkward grace and lean athleticism—and yeah, okay, maybe "awkward grace" was a little bit contradictory but it made sense in Wade's head.

"Next time, maybe just... open it?"

Wade turned his attention to Peter's words, instead of his body.

"You know, with your hands, like normal people do."

Normal people? Ouch.

He had a point, though. The windows... did seem to be openable. He'd have to keep that in mind for next time. Assuming there would be a next time.

"Good job not swearing." Spidey offered him a hand—wow, he did care—and Wade took it with a grateful grunt, pulling himself to his feet and briefly leaning on Peter for support. But not too long. Precisely timed. Just long enough to feel the familiar warmth of his side, and no longer, in case he got suspicious that the jokes weren't jokes.

"Don't condescend to me." Wade cracked his neck and looked down on the deserted factory floor.

Husks of old machinery cast deep shadows, in the largely unlit building. Sheets, here and there. Tarps, or something. Not bed sheets... though that would have been fun. Maybe plaid... or with little penguins...

It was very quiet.

Wade could hear Peter breathing, just a little bit of exertion coloring each inhale and exhale, but not to the point of being winded.

Yeah, okay, no complicated feelings there.

Focus.

Where... was... their... man....?

There.

Wade drew his gun.

Spider-Man _looked_ at him. Sternly.

"Relax." Wade kept his voice low, quiet. "It's loaded with blanks."

Blanks, and a laser sight for show. He took aim at the side of a conveyor belt, hoping for their quarry to take note of the red dot drawing near. Sure enough, the guy froze. Looked in their direction, as Wade moved the laser up to his forehead. Still frozen. Wade gave him a little wave, and muttered, "Cover your ears."

He pulled the trigger with a flash of light and sound, and the guy fainted on the spot.

Ears ringing—it'd be fine in a second. Boy did those big, empty concrete buildings amplify sound, though.

He hopped the railing and dropped down to the floor below—

"Ah, Jesus Christ on a bike—" Wade rolled onto his back. "I always forget those are breakable."

Of course, Peter "Spidey" Parker landed beside him like a cat. Or...wait. Like a spider? Spared him a glance, and everything, before shooting a web at their victim—no. Prey? No... What was the not-villainous sounding word? Target? Close enough. Spider-Man webbed up their target and then turned to Wade in full.

"You okay?"

Wade gave him two thumbs up from where he lay. "Gimme like, five minutes."

Peter tapped his foot against Wade's as he pulled out his phone, and Wade hissed.

Jerk.

But when Wade made to stand, Peter helped him up again, and led him limping toward the exit as the sound of sirens grew louder. Always with the 9-1-1. Wade let Peter take most of his weight, not that he really needed to, but why not make him work a little? And anyway, it was kinda nice to have someone to rely on, even when it wasn't strictly necessary. Especially when said someone had super strength and all that fun stuff, so it didn't even seem like much of a burden in the first place.

The sky was very dark, clear of clouds and jet black.

"Hey."

Peter tilted his head, listening.

"Ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

Peter frowned. Or, it seemed like it, through the mask, but it could have been another expression. "What?"

Softly, Wade laughed, and said, "Nothing." His shins had fully fixed themselves by this point but he couldn't bring himself to take his arm from around Peter's shoulders. Narrow as they were.

God...

Don't just keep spouting media references at him.

Bite the bullet.

Suck it the fuck up.

Make a move.

Carpe that fucking diem.

There was no way in hell he'd make it a full day without swearing.

"Hey, Webs?"

Peter glanced at him, with a little "Hm?"

Wade took a breath, as inconspicuous as he could manage. "You know that painting I showed you behind the little door?"

"Uh...huh?" Peter tilted his head.

"How do you feel about a reenactment?"

A beat.

Peter tilted his head even further, like some kind of... dorky puppy in a superhero mask. "I mean, it's dark out. Wouldn't it be better to go see it again during the day?"

What a complete misunderstanding. What a—what a dumb, beautiful idiot.

Wade stopped Peter, with a tug on his arm. He looked at him for a good, long thirty seconds before cupping his face in his hands and whispering, "Peter, you're so fucking stupid."

"Wha—" The weird lenses on his mask narrowed, presumably to match his eyes underneath. "Speak for yourself, _jerk_."

Peter continued to glower and added, "You owe me ten dollars."

Ah, shit.

Him and his fucking potty-mouth.

"Mr. Rogers, I've failed you." He let Peter's face go, digging out his wallet to hand Peter a couple of fives. Exchange made, he resumed walking, too much of a coward to commit. Too many possibilities. "You're right, though, better to go during the daytime, unless that suit has some kind of flashlight." He drummed a beat on his thigh with his fingertips.

Peter followed after him. "Not yet!"

\--

The next day, they really did go back.

Not as Spider-Man and Deadpool, this time. Just Peter and Wade, bundled up in the chill of mid-afternoon. Coats and scarves and gloves, and Wade had pulled on what may or may not have been a Captain America beanie to keep his head warm, and his white baseball cap to keep the pre-winter sun out of his eyes, and his biggest most reflective shades to hide the fact that he couldn't help staring at Peter every five seconds they spent together.

Or maybe those were also for the sun.

He had sensitive eyes, okay?

"It's the same."

Wade snorted. "Duh." He sat with his back to the wall, beside the little door, and looked out past the trees, at the glaring white clouds. "Did you think there would be a new painting?"

With a sigh, Peter sat facing of the art-piece-slash-graffiti. "I dunno."

But, despite his seeming disappointment, he scrutinized the painting and its miniature door for a pretty long time.

As for Wade... well, he found himself pulling at a loose string on his gloves, trying not to stare at Peter, and had to stop himself from unraveling a hole in the finger. He slapped his hands on his knees in an uneven patter, directing his energy instead into something less destructive. Which, ha. Right. Wade Wilson, not doing _something_ destructive? Real unlikely.

After a minute, Peter spoke up. "You only do that when you're stressed."

Wade blinked. "What?"

"Your hands—" Peter nodded toward Wade's tapping. "You're nervous?"

Wade stilled his hands with a great deal of difficulty. They itched to move, and he smiled with some small amount of... bemusement? Was that the word? He crossed his arms and stuck his hands in his armpits. "I have no idea what you mean."

Peter rolled his eyes.

He did that a lot, but it was okay because it was cute.

Focus.

"Hey. Peter."

Raised eyebrows, but he waited expectantly.

 _Shit_.

"Never mind."

Peter pursed his lips in that frustrated but not willing to push it way he had. Like, he was annoyed, but he wasn't gonna do anything about it. The most infuriating of the Parker expressions but what the hell was Wade supposed to do? Get mad at him? No way. He might have been an asshole but he wasn't _that_ kind of asshole. He didn't ever wanna be that kind of asshole.

He drew his legs up with a sigh, hands still in his armpits, and rested his chin on his knees.

Better not to look at Peter anymore.

Quietly, Peter closed the door on _The Kiss_ , and moved to sit beside Wade, close enough that their arms touched. He leaned over so his head rested on Wade's shoulder, and Wade closed his eyes. Did he know? He dug his fingers into his sides, toes curling inside of his shoes. But then he let out a breath and relaxed.

Just take in all the sensations.

Cold wind, warm shoulder, half-numb ass, itching legs, Peter's soft breathing, a distant chirping bird...

"Wade." Peter got up onto his knees, facing Wade—his hands, bare and warm from his pockets, brushed against Wade's cheek, and Wade looked up at him. Peter leaned down, and Wade... didn't know what to do. His baseball cap fell off when Peter's forehead bumped against the brim. He held his breath so long he probably killed his last two brain cells.

When he'd imagined this moment, he'd been the guy on the left, not the girl on the right.

But who was he to complain?

Maybe he always wanted it that way, anyway.

Peter had very long eyelashes, and very soft lips.

Wade sighed. "Took you long enough."

Cover the nerves with bluster.

Peter grabbed Wade's beanie and pulled it down over his eyes. "Shut up."

But Wade could not control the grin that overtook his face. Did he look a little manic? Hopefully not. He felt like dancing. Instead, he threw his arms around Peter, burying his face in his neck—Peter yelped, balance thrown off—

"Your nose is freezing!"

Oh, whoops.

Wade laughed, and Peter held him—or let himself be held?—and laughed too.

 

drew this real quick, posted it to my twitter ([link](https://twitter.com/nadiarwendt/status/1065873992387461120)) and art blog ([link](http://hoardlikegoldenirises.tumblr.com/post/180404715777)).

**Author's Note:**

> *Youtuber voice* Don't forget to like and subscribe.  
> As always lemme know if you have any suggestions for tags or ratings.  
> also pls be gentle; my main exposure to these characters is thru the Spider-Man/Deadpool (and Spider-Man vs. Deadpool) comics. Which are good, but I've never read a main-series Deadpool or Spider-Man comic in my life and I refuse to start now.


End file.
